The scream when it came was from Kirsty and was bitten off as soon as it had formed. ‘Oh, Mrs Shelley, I’m sorry!’ The girl had almost dropped the ewer of hot water she was carrying as she turned away, trying not to stare at the beautiful voluptuous body of the woman lying so wantonly on the bed.
Louisa lay still for a moment, not knowing where she was, still hazy with sleep, all memory of her dream gone, then she grabbed for the sheet and pulled it over her, inexplicably amused at Kirsty’s stunned expression.
‘Kirsty! Come in. Bring the water.’ Sitting up she swept her hair back off her face with her hands. ‘Forgive me. It was so hot last night I threw off the bedclothes.’ And her nightdress. She could see it lying in a crumpled heap near the window.
Kirsty had regained her composure. Her eyes fixed on the floor she set the jug down. ‘Do you want me to help you dress, Mrs Shelley?’
Louisa shook her head. ‘Not yet, thank you. I’ll take a moment to wake up. I’ll ring if I need you.’
Her whole body was alive and tingling. She felt younger than she had felt for years. Young and happy and excited.
She waited, swathed in the sheet, for the girl to leave the room, then she climbed out of bed and walked naked over to the open window. The morning air was cool and she shivered as she bent to pick up her nightgown. It was torn almost in two. She frowned, staring down at it. Had she caught it on something? Had she sleep-walked, restless in the heat of the night, and thrown it off without bothering to unfasten the ribbons which held it closed?
She glanced round the room, suddenly uneasy. She had had a strange dream, and in the dream –
But it had gone.
Walking over to the basin she poured some hot water and reaching for the embroidered wash cloth on the wooden towel rail she began to sponge her face and neck. When she reached her breasts she winced. Looking down at herself she realised suddenly that they were reddened and sore. With an exclamation of surprise she went to stand in front of the cheval mirror in the corner of the room and stared at herself in horror. There were bruises on her arms and breasts, her nipples were engorged and there was a mark on her neck which looked suspiciously like a bite. She stood for several moments unable to move, her whole body numb with shock, then slowly she raised her hands and ran them gently over her cold skin. Her body tingled with anticipation. She stroked her thumb over the bruise on her hip and felt herself respond with a leap of desire so overwhelming that she gasped out loud.
She did not call Kirsty to help her dress. Painfully she pulled on her petticoat, her loose cotton drawers and one of her pretty aesthetic dresses, the kind which had so shocked her hosts in Egypt seven years before, but which were now blessedly a fashion item and approved even in The Queen Magazine as an acceptable alternative to tightly corseted waists and the bustle. Around her neck she fastened a velvet ribbon to hide the red mark.
It was as she was slipping on her shoes that she found the brooch on the floor, half hidden by the trailing bedclothes. She picked it up and stared at it. Deeply engraved silver surrounded a large golden topaz-like stone – a few strands of fine red wool were caught in the pin as though it had been torn from someone’s shoulder.
She sat down, turning it over and over in her hands, then leaping to her feet she ran over and dragged the covers back off the bed, staring down at the sheets. They were spotless.
Lord Carstairs. The man who filled her with loathing and horror; the man of whom she was so desperately afraid; she remembered it all now; he had been there, in her room; he had hurt her. And yet – she hesitated even to address the thought – the touch of his hands, his lips – had given her pleasure.
For a long time she stood without moving, trying to understand what had happened. Her body ached; her clothes were ripped. She had his brooch. And yet this man was, as far as she knew, four thousand miles away in America. It had been a dream. But how could it have been?
She tried to force herself to confront what had happened. He had been there. In her room.
He must have been.
She shuddered. No. It wasn’t possible
3
‘We leave for Edinburgh this morning, Louisa my dear.’ David Fielding smiled at her as she appeared at last in the breakfast room. ‘And Katherine was wondering if you would like to accompany us. If Sarah could spare you for a few days I am sure you would enjoy it.’
Louisa found herself giving a deep exhausted sigh. Until last night this place had been a haven; a retreat from her dreams and nightmares. But now everything had changed. Even the thought of spending time with Venetia might be better than living with a dream like last night’s. She turned from the sideboard with her bowl of porridge to take her place at the table, her mind almost made up to accept, but Sarah was already speaking.
‘Bless you, David, for the thought, but I have already planned to take Louisa to Edinburgh later in the month. I’m afraid I can’t possibly spare her now. We have so much planned. So many things to do.’
‘I was right to say that, wasn’t I?’ she said to Louisa later. ‘I could see you and Venetia do not get on. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise. I had thought we were all friends. But at least I could spare you the long journey in her company.’ She paused. ‘Are you all right, Louisa? You look a little feverish.’
Louisa and she had watched the Fieldings depart an hour earlier with their nurses and their children and were now seated on the bench in the shade of one of the great cedars on the lawn behind the house. Sarah had brought her embroidery outside with her, Louisa a sketchbook and a box of watercolours and the latest letters from her two sons. All lay untouched on the seat beside her. How could she tell her hostess she would rather have driven on with the others even if that meant tolerating the company of the odious Venetia; that she dreaded another night under this roof because of her dreams. If they were dreams. She pictured again the brooch, now hidden in her own jewel box, and the man who had been wearing it.
As though reading her thoughts Sarah went on, ‘We haven’t talked about our visit to Carstairs Castle. What did you think of the place?’
Louisa was staring down across the grass towards the distant hills. ‘Very impressive.’
‘Do I gather Venetia has a fondness for his lordship?’
‘She has always found him attractive, I believe.’ Louisa smiled grimly.
‘Oh, but he is. Devilishly attractive!’ Sarah giggled. ‘If I were a little younger I might have set my cap at him myself.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘You are still young enough to ensnare him, Louisa. How would you like a title and a fortune? It is such a long time since your husband died. Think what fun you could have. A man with a certain reputation!’ She was setting her stitches with care, not looking at Louisa’s face.
‘He is in America, Sarah.’ Louisa’s voice was so taut that Sarah at last glanced up. Her guest’s face was as white as a sheet. Their eyes met. ‘He is in America.’ Louisa repeated. ‘Isn’t he?’
‘Yes, my dear. Of course he is.’ Sarah put down her sewing. ‘What is it? You look frightened.’
‘I dreamed about him last night.’ Louisa bit her lip. ‘It was so real. I –’ She hesitated, shaking her head. ‘It was so real I found it hard to believe it was a dream.’
The brooch was not a dream. Nor were the bruises on her body.
Sarah was still studying her face, her embroidery lying discarded on her knee. ‘And it was not a pleasant experience, if I read your expression aright.’
Louisa blushed scarlet. ‘No.’
Yes. The treacherous word hung between them, unspoken.
For a moment Sarah continued her silent scrutiny. ‘Were you – that is, did he